


Perspicacity

by pallas_or_bust



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Yule 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5608738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pallas_or_bust/pseuds/pallas_or_bust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some Perscitia backstory. May contain sads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perspicacity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celestialskiff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/gifts).



> I love Perscitia-- thank you so much for this prompt!

Being able to stretch, after so long confined to an egg, is certainly a relief, but the dragonet is not at all certain that it compensates for the dazzling light in her eyes or the confusing melange of smells that assaults her nose. She blinks, sniffs once, twice, and at the same time perceives a strong vertical shape--no, a creature, with a body plan analogous to her own, only vertically arrayed and curiously lacking in wings. She unfurls her own, flapping them experimentally, and the creature starts forward, hand outstretched: “No!”

The dragonet cocks her head. “Did I startle you?”

“No--I only--my name is Lieutenant Percival Pope, would you like something to eat?” the creature says, all in a rush. He holds out a slab of red meat; the smell makes the dragonet’s mouth water. “Only, if you eat it, I will be your captain, and we will fly together, and I will give you a name.”

"A name does not sound so bad, and I suppose once I know better what flying means I shall come to enjoy it. Is a captain something all dragons must have? You do not seem so bright, or perhaps you are merely inarticulate, but in any case you do not seem all bad, particularly if you have more meat.”

“All the cleverest dragons have captains,” Percival Pope says solemnly. “And you are certainly clever. I shall call you Perscitia.”

Perscitia swallows the meat whole, and as she does so a heavy leather collar falls around her neck. She is too hungry to mind it much. But later, after Percival--her captain, Percival--has fed her almost half a pig, piece by piece, and secured more and more collars and buckles around her, she has to ask, “And what is this business?”

“Why, it is a harness,” Percival says. “So we can fly together.” His strange, squashed face is difficult for Perscitia to read, but she perceives happiness in his voice. She still does not quite understand this idea--flying--but she is determined she will be good at it, will show Percival how clever she is.

“I will make you glad,” she says, and nuzzles her captain’s knees.

"I know you will,” he says, petting her head. “I know you will.”

***

"Oh, this is no good,” Celeritas says, shaking his old yellow head. “This is no good at all.”

It is Perscitia and Percival’s third week at Loch Laggan, her second week of remedial flying class, and it is clear to all that, despite the best efforts of all concerned, Perscitia is slow. Some of the other dragons have taken to calling her Ponderosa behind her back. Even with extra exercises to strengthen her wings, even with technique lessons from Obversaria, even with Percival running himself ragged trying different harness configurations, different load distributions, different everything--

“I realize I am slower than all the rest,” Perscitia says. “And I do not see what more we can do to fix it. It is not as though I am lazy; but my wings and my body are just not built that way. You cannot blame me for that.”

“I do not blame you for it,” Celeritas says slowly, “but I cannot say will you be of much use in formation flying; all the French beasts will be faster than you, and if you cannot keep formation you will be killed.”

“Well, then you must not put me in formation!” Perscitia says, hackles raised.

 “A middle-weight such as yourself may escape during peacetime, but given the current situation in France we cannot expect that to last much longer. I must put you in a slow formation, and hope for the best.” Celeritas taps a claw contemplatively on the ground. “Laetificat. She served with great distinction during the American war, but she is no falcon. And her temperament will, I hope, serve as an example to you…”

*** 

“I am not sure what he wanted me to learn from her temperament,” Perscitia harrumphs to her captain, several months later, finally attached to Laetificat’s formation in Gibraltar. “She is so dreadfully relaxed about everything; it is downright irresponsible.”

“I was her first lieutenant,” Percival says softly, “before I had you, I mean,” and Perscitia tries hard, so hard, to not hear the faint wistfulness in his voice.

*** 

Perscitia has her own first lieutenant: Jacques St. Germain, the natural child of a Longwing captain, a boy who will never inherit his mother’s exalted place in the world. Still, he is big and bluff and good-humored, quick to smile where Percival is quick to worry. At first Perscitia does not take to him; thinks of him a little like a human Laetificat, useful if you need someone to throw weight around, but altogether conventional--unoriginal--dull. But then he returns from London with an armful of books for Percival.

“I know you mentioned star navigation the other day as something you were interested in,” Jacques says, cheeks pink from the cold, slightly breathless from the climb up to Perscitia’s favorite little cave. He hands a book to Percival. “And the Moorish history of Spain.” Another book. “And the writings of David Hume.” Another two books. “And dragon anatomy--Sir Joseph Banks’ latest, here, and here’s Cuvier--”

“My dear fellow,” Percival exclaims, with an armful of books, “did you not think to fetch any for yourself?”

“Oh, I don’t… I don’t read, really, not like--”

Perscitia, reaching out a talon to get a better look at the astronomy book, finds herself being used as a desk, all seven books dumped unceremoniously into her claw as Percival flings his arms around Jacques.

“--you,” the boy finishes.

***

Perscitia’s cave, as it transpires, is one of the few places in all of Gibraltar where Percival and Jacques can get some privacy. She doesn’t resent all the attention Percival gives Jacques and vice versa--that is only a small lie. Perhaps it would be better to say that she wants Percival to be happy, and right now he is over the moon. In unguarded moments he stares off into space with a bleary smile, his shoulders loose and his back unbent.

Perscitia only wishes he would spend a little more time actually looking after his dragon, instead of “looking after his dragon.”    

***

“Pull up, Perscitia, up!” Percival screams, and with a great bellow of fear she downthrusts with her wings as hard as she can, her wingtips brushing the cold skin of the ocean. They do not crash into the sea, but they are far below and behind the formation; startled from above by a quick-moving Flamme du Gloire, Perscitia had dropped like a stone away from Laetificat and the rest.

“Up! Back to them!” Percival cries, and with labored wingbeats Perscitia tries to obey, but it is hopeless--she was already flying as fast as she could, cannot possibly hope to catch up now. Even at a glance she can see the vulnerable place at Laetficat’s belly, can think of a dozen ways for a decent flier to exploit it. And they have worse problems--three lightweights, coming in fast. One darts in and scores a gash along her side before she can even react. Jacques and her crew pepper the beast with bullets, but Perscitia is already panicking, the red-hot pain making her head swim. She shrills and cries, veering away from Laetificat--away from the battle, thinking only that perhaps if she retreats far enough the French dragons will stop trying to hurt her.

“Perscitia, no! We have to go back!” Percival screams, practically in her ear, and then a shadow falls directly overhead. There is a heavy impact on her neck, forward of her captain, where the harness does not reach, and a sharp sting--she is bleeding--

“Boarder!” Jacques cries from his position between her wings. Perscitia swings her head violently in an attempt to dislodge the man, but he staggers forward far enough to latch onto her collar-harness. He can only be a foot from Percival at best, and she cries out in distress for her captain. She feels their feet moving; a violent struggle; hears the clash of steel and Percival’s cry of pain. Jacques is unclipped, moving forward, relying on his balance and trusting her to fly steady. Perscitia doesn’t know if that’s the best idea: she’s seeing spots, can feel the blood dripping from her side and running freely down her neck. Her wings are burning with effort.

“Don’t try anything, dragon,” a French-accented voice shouts. “I have my sword at your captain’s throat. You will f--”

Perscitia feels the thuds of Jacques’ feet as he charges the Frenchman, knocking the sword aside, dodging under his arm. There’s a curious coughing grunt, the sound of a man being run through, and Perscitia cries, “Percival!”

“I’m fine!” Percival says. “Jacques--”

Two bodies fall heavily onto Perscitia’s wounded neck, and she cries out and throws back her head in pain. Hands claw at her scales, slick with blood, and some of the weight disappears.

It’s only when she hears her captain calling his name that she realizes Jacques has fallen.

_I should have been faster,_ is all she can think in her exhaustion. _I should have been faster._

***

“He died because of you,” Percival snaps. They are back at Loch Laggan for mandatory retraining: Laetificat had been directly endangered by Perscitia’s failure to keep formation, and the higher powers in the Corps are beginning to wonder if she is more a liability than an asset. There are other middle-weights; there are not other Leitificats.

“He died _for you_ ,” Perscitia half roars, tail lashing the ground, throwing up gravel.

“Jacques St. Germain died for England,” Celeritas says calmly. “For England, and the Empire, as we have all, in one way or another, volunteered to do.”

“I do not care a fig for your Empire,” Perscitia declares. “And I will certainly not die for it, nor will I allow Percival to.”

“That is not your decision to make!” Percival yells.

“Yes it is! I am your dragon and if I choose not to fight you cannot make me, and you cannot fight without me!”

Percival looks at Celeritas, and Perscitia knows before he opens his mouth that she has lost him.

***

In the breeding grounds, far from any news, stories trickle in slowly. Her old captain becomes a first lieutenant again--will never get another chance at promotion, now that he has thrown himself away on Perscitia. She should feel guilty about that, perhaps, but she is too angry still. None of this would have happened if they had not made her fight.

Every time they hear of a major engagement she sends out inquiries with the couriers. She is always relieved to hear her captain is well, and wonders if he still thinks upon her, and if so, if he does so with regret, and if so, if he regrets _her_ or _leaving her_ more. One day the world will stop asking those impossible questions.

***

After the Battle of Shoeburyness the news is finally bad. He caught a bullet in the chest during a boarding action, bled out in his harness.  _I should have been faster,_ she thinks, obscurely. But then she remembers Celeritas’ words. _For England and the Empire._ If Perscitia had remained in the Corps, would her captain have lived?

One day she is going to stop the world from asking these impossible questions. One day England and the Empire will look at a dragon without thinking of only her claws and its teeth. One day Perscitia will make them see she is more than a weapon of war.

“Excuse me, er…. Madam?”

It’s a workman, hat off, a team of oxen hauling a slab of marble behind him. Oh, yes. For her pavilion.

“Put it there,” Perscitia snaps, lashing her tail, and begins to build an empire of her own.


End file.
